


this is a snow globe without any water

by kay_cricketed



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, spoilers for digestivo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_cricketed/pseuds/kay_cricketed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the hours after their escape from Muskrat Farm, and in the moments before Will wakes, Hannibal experiences a window of perspective he's never known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a snow globe without any water

The snow falls quiet, and it is not the heavy curtain of Lithuania but something cleansing, something empty. He comprehends now the way a small animal's body grows cold as it dies. It can be said that Will Graham understands him, but only in this moment does Hannibal look out across the barren landscape of Wolf Trap and understand what it is that draws Will Graham to its tableau. The black naked branches of the trees crown the wooded grounds like crooked teeth.

Hannibal had been wrong. This is the memory he will take with him for the rest of his life—not Florence, not the teacup—but this, the momentary quell, the faint birdsong of survivors, the damp breathing of Will before he wakes.

In other worlds, they may sit down to breakfast together. Hannibal will make pancakes out of the Bisquick mix left in the cupboard. Will gazes out the window at the snowfall and takes careful, measured bites. In other worlds, the coffee is made with tepid water and stale instant powder, but Hannibal savors the flavor. They do not speak.

They move in tandem to empty drawers and closets: thick wool socks, fishing rods, half a bag of dog food. "I know someone in Quebec," says Will, and nothing more.

The snow buries the remnants of their lives in those other worlds, stamping out the sound of the car as it huffs out of the garage. Hannibal can feel Will's hand resting on the back of the passenger seat headrest, balancing the twist of his body as he watches the driveway behind them for deer, as though this world is only separated from them by a wafer-thin wall, as if the membrane is palpable, the weak pink of blood cells fading fast. As the sun comes to bear, Hannibal holds the memory untaken close, long past when it disappears from them forever.

There is no equation to mend the teacup—their allocation of miracles is spent. 

But he can be there when Will wakes. He can sit in the chair that smells like dog and be a man he's never been before: one with the luxury of waiting, one with the blessing of no hunger to move him.


End file.
